Shrapnel (9 page)

She snapped shut her compact, dropped it in her bag, turned from the mirror. ‘Bound to, I should think. Why?'

‘And it's the same God, isn't it?'

‘Ye-es.'

‘Well, who will He listen to, Gran? Whose prayers will He answer?'

Gran shook her head. ‘I don't know, Gordon. Nobody does.'

‘But the Germans'll think He's on
their
side, and we think He's on ours?'

‘Something like that.' She looked at me. ‘Why not come along – you could ask Reverend Pike your questions, he's more qualified than me.'

‘I don't think that's a very good idea, Mum,' put in Dad. She's not
his
mum, she's Mum's, but he calls her ‘Mum'.

I looked at him. ‘Why not, Dad?'

He shrugged. ‘There are some questions it's better not to ask, Gordon – especially in wartime.
And anyway, I thought you were dead keen on finishing that aeroplane of yours.'

I nodded. ‘I am. I was just wondering, that's all.' I turned to Gran. ‘I won't come, Gran, if that's all right.'

‘Of course it's all right, love. I'll see you at twelve o'clock.'

As she turned and left the room, the fox gazed back at me with bright, sightless eyes.

I FINISHED PUTTING
the fuselage together that day. I had the undercarriage in place too, so that the thing stood on the floor like the skeleton of some prehistoric lizard. I wound the rubber-band engine really tightly by turning the propeller. When I let go it spun so fast it pulled the plane across the floor. It only travelled a few feet, but I could tell it'd be absolutely wizard in the air.

The wings would have to be built in the evenings, after homework and between air raids. Attics aren't good places to be during air raids – incendiary bombs come crashing
through roofs and set them on fire.

Monday morning I got to school early. So did Walter Linfoot. We had business to see to before the bell.

At morning break there was a crowd round Walter. He had his shrapnel collection out, always an attraction, but that wasn't all. Today he'd decided to cash in on the kids' fascination with his chunk of German bomber by offering to sell bits off it at sixpence a go. Sixpence was a lot of dosh in those days – a week's pocket money for most youngsters – but it's amazing how many of them could get the necessary together if it meant having a bit of Heinkel in their collections. Clearly, old Walter was set to rake in a fortune.

There was a snag however, in the shape of Dicky Deadman, and it wasn't many minutes before he appeared with Charlie, Bobby and Victor in attendance. They shoved their way to the front.

‘What's going on, Linfoot?' demanded the cock of the school.

Walter gulped. ‘Oh – I've decided to sell bits of my enemy bomber, Deadman – sixpence each. Want one?'

Deadman stared into the lad's eyes. ‘Got a
licence, have you, Linfoot? Hawker's licence, to sell on this playground?'

‘L . . . licence?' stammered Walter. ‘I didn't know I needed a licence.'

‘Oooh yes, Linfoot, you need a licence. A hawker's licence. Big trouble if you trade without one.' He grinned evilly. ‘Why d'you think spivs make themselves scarce when they spot a rozzer, eh?'

‘Well . . . where'll I
get
one, Deadman? Who issues them?'

‘Me,' said Deadman. ‘On this playground
I
issue 'em, and I'm turning down your application
and
confiscating your stock. Hand it over.'

‘No!' Walter clutched the ragged sheet of metal to his chest. ‘It's mine. My brother got it for me. You're not having it.'

Deadman turned to his sidekicks. ‘Hear that, Bobby, Victor, Charlie? Cheeky runt says I'm not having it. Sheer bad manners, I call that. How about you?'

‘Bad manners, definitely,' confirmed Victor.

‘Shocking,' nodded Charlie.

‘Makes you wonder who brought him up,' growled Bobby. ‘Calls for a spot of re-education if you ask me.'

‘No.' Deadman shook his head. ‘No, he's not a bad lad, old Linfoot. I've known worse.' He looked at Walter. ‘I'm feeling generous today, Linfoot, so I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll forget about the licence, and instead of confiscating your stock I'll give you half a crown for it. How's that?'

‘Half a
crown
?' Walter looked stricken. ‘I'd make half a crown selling five bits, and there must be fifty in this piece. More.'

Deadman nodded. ‘That's about right, Linfoot. Fifty at sixpence comes to – what?' Mental arithmetic wasn't Dicky's speciality. Charlie came to his rescue. ‘Twenty-five bob I make it, Dicky.'

Deadman nodded. ‘Spot on, Charlie, I was just testing.' He thrust a hand into his pocket. ‘Here's your half-crown, Linfoot. Take it before I change my mind.'

Poor Walter took the coin and surrendered the precious metal. He even had to lend Deadman the tin-snips he'd brought to cut the pieces with. None of the collectors was sympathetic. They opened a channel to let him through, then clamoured round Deadman offering cash, promises, IOUs. Nothing mattered except their collections.

I WENT NOWHERE
after school that week. Norman probably thought I'd been killed. Straight after tea it was up to my room and on with the Skymaster. Mum was glad, of course. She didn't like me to be out in the blackout, especially since Dad told that story about the boy getting shot. Personally I thought it was nothing but a rumour – there were always unkind stories about the Home Guard. I blame George Formby with that song of his.

Anyway, by bedtime Friday I had the wings built and the whole thing covered, doped and
camouflaged. It looked absolutely super and I was dead proud of it. I held it aloft and trotted round the room making engine noises. For a few minutes I forgot I'd built the thing under orders, for a purpose that was a mystery to me.

I had to detach the wings to get the thing down the attic stairs, which were steep and narrow. Mum, Dad and Gran were deeply impressed when I reassembled it on the kitchen table. ‘It's splendid, Gordon,' said Mum. ‘Isn't it, Frank?'

Dad smiled. ‘Yes it is, Ethel.' He looked at me. ‘Where will you fly it, son?'

‘I . . . I'm not sure, Dad.' The question had taken me by surprise. I'd have to wait to be contacted before flying the Skymaster
anywhere
, but I could hardly say that. I shrugged. ‘The park, I expect.'

Gran shook her head. ‘Not the
park
, sweetheart. Too small. Knock some poor tot's head off with it. Need more space. Myra Shay's big enough, I'd take it there if I were you.' Myra Shay's an expanse of rough grassland halfway between Hastley and school. I biked past it every day.

‘Good idea, Mum.' Dad nodded. ‘We could try
it out tomorrow afternoon if the rain keeps off.'

We?
I went cold. I hadn't a clue about the model's role in my brother's hush-hush work, but I was pretty sure his plans didn't include having Dad around. ‘That'll be nice, Dad,' I murmured faintly, ‘if the rain keeps off.'

I'm not one for praying, but that night I prayed for rain like a fish in the Sahara.

AND IT RAINED
so hard it woke me up. Two in the morning, drumming on the skylight window of my attic bedroom. I'm not claiming it was my prayer that did it, I'm just saying what happened.

Wet nights were popular that year. Why? Because rain falls out of clouds, and clouds hide everything from enemy bombers. When the moon shone, people spoke of it as a
bomber's moon
. Its light fell on rivers, canals and railway lines, turning them to silver. Bomber crews would follow these gleaming trails to the towns
and cities they ran through, and find moon-washed rooftops to aim their bombs at. In 1941, a good wet night was a blessing.

I fell asleep listening to that drumming, and in the morning it was still coming down. I was dead relieved, but I pretended for Dad's benefit to be disappointed. ‘Shame,' I murmured, looking out of Gran's parlour window.

Dad nodded ruefully. ‘Wouldn't be much fun on Myra Shay this morning, son. Maybe next weekend, eh?'

‘Maybe,' I agreed.

I was worried. How would my contact, whoever he was, know I'd finished the plane? How would he know when to contact me? I thought about it, and an idea came to me. Not much of one, but at any rate the best I could come up with.

What I did was, I stood the Skymaster on the table by the window. It was Gran's best table – polished walnut – so I spread a tea towel over it first. Then I dashed outside to have a squint at it. The plane was clearly visible to anyone walking by. All I could do now was wait.

I didn't have to wait long. Just after ten there was a knock at the side door. Mum opened it, and
called to me. ‘Young man from Carter's, Gordon, asking for you.'

I hurried to the door, recognized the man who'd sold me the kit. Poor chap looked half-drowned. ‘Come inside,' I invited, but he shook his head.

‘No time. Manager sent me with this.' He thrust a folded paper at me. ‘It's a receipt for five shillings, ought to have given it to you before you left the shop.' He lowered his voice. ‘Keep it to yourself, read it, burn it. Good morning.'

He spun on his heel and hurried off, shoulders hunched against the downpour. I stood gawping after him till the penny dropped.

I'd been contacted.

‘What did the young man
want
, Gordon?' asked Mum.

I stuffed the paper in my pocket. ‘It was nothing, Mum, just a receipt for my five bob. Dunno why they had to send him out on a day like this. I'm off to my room if that's all right.'

Under the skylight I smoothed the paper and
read the words scrawled in pencil:

Fly at Myra Shay Saturday next, ten a.m. Lose plane over Manley's fence, it will be returned in minutes. Do
not
continue flying, do
not
examine plane. Leave in shed with bike. Await instructions. Burn this now.

I read the note a second time, then struck a match from the box I kept for the gaslight. The paper was damp, it didn't catch straight away. I held the flame to a corner. My hand shook. I was listening for footfalls but nobody came. Finally the paper caught fire and I dropped it in a Bakelite ashtray, where it burned to a blackened crisp. This I crushed to powder before throwing it out of the window. I rubbed my hands together, satisfied Sherlock Holmes himself couldn't have made sense of it now.

We secret agents can't be too careful.